A Winter's Tale
by Sir Thopas
Summary: The House of Bourbon has ruled France for two hundred years, yet there is a deadly curse that plagues its members. Disease and death follow them like old friends, black magic envelopes them like a burial shroud, and there are whispers, dark whispers, of princes and kings and dukes transforming into hideous beasts.
1. Preface

**Preface**

For those of you who enjoyed my "Letters to a Loved One" series, this story is a reworking of those earlier fanfics. When I started writing the first fanfic (also titled _A Winter's Tale_) I had decided that I wanted to write it as a collection of letters. I am an amateur historian myself, and much of my time is spent digging through old letters. I always enjoyed trying to recreate the whole story when I had only bits and pieces to work with. When dealing with letters, you often only have one half of the story. The replies that the other correspondent may have sent have long disappeared. Some of the letters may be missing, sometimes they refer only obliquely to events that were too horrible or painful to talk about openly. I wanted to recreate that ambiguity, but, unfortunately, I encountered many problems. I wanted this series to be as historically correct as possible, but the politics and culture of 18th century France is not well understood by the average lay reader. I found myself writing long-winded author's notes at the beginning of each chapter just so the story would make some kind of sense. Many times these notes were longer than the chapter itself. I decided the best way to tell this story would be through prose. This way I could introduce whatever details I needed the reader to know within the actual story, instead of having to rely on notes that were often quite dry and boring. All of the _Beauty and the Beast_ stories that I have written - _A Winter's Tale_, _Tender is the Night_, _The Art of Love_, _Air and Angels_, and The _Flesh and the Spirit_ - will be integrated into this new story. This story will also contain the plots from the three fanfics that I had intended to include in the "Letters to a Loved One" series but had not yet written: _The Cure for Love_ (Babette), _The Stolen Child_ (Chip), and _Utopia_ (Maurice).

That being said, while I have tried to make this story historically accurate, I have only done so up to a certain point. This story takes place in an alternate universe filled with magic, legendary creatures, and, of course, the Disney characters themselves. For example, one change that I made to history was to give Charles, the Duke of Berry (1686-1714) a son. The real Duke of Berry died childless, but here he is the father of Beast. Other Disney princesses - Cinderella, Snow White, Jasmine, etc. - will also be a part of this universe.

Finally, the portrait used in the cover art is _Madame de Pompadour_ by François Boucher.

I hope you enjoy the story.


	2. The Arrival

**The Arrival**

_Scotland, 1873_

The Princess shivered as the wind howled and battered against the carriage. There was nothing of her native France in this wild, unforgiving land. Peeking from behind the curtain, she looked out across the desolate field. It was not beautiful. Dead, brown grasses - bent from the continuous, relentless wind - were peeking out from beneath the snow in ugly clumps. The sky hung low and heavy, the gray clouds promising more bad weather to come. There were no houses, no trees, nothing to break up the persistent monotony. It felt like she was at the end of the world. In the distance she could see a bonze statue of a woman gleaming in the dull light, the figure of some long-dead Pictish queen. She sat astride a bear, her face glowering fiercely and her untamed hair covered with yellow lichen, still waiting for her enemy to appear on that ancient battlefield. It was the only sign of life the Princess had seen for miles.

Princess Gabrielle closed the curtain, shivering as she settled back into the carriage. She should have stayed in London and never come to this strange country. At least in London she could close her eyes and pretend she was still in Paris. The Empress had warned her not to accept the invitation, but she had been curious to meet the supposed lunatic of Dunbroch Hall, the mad woman who called herself the Queen of France. Since the death of the Emperor a month before, they had received many letters of condolences, but none so strange as the one sent by "Queen Rose". There had been pages upon pages of the woman's half-crazed rants against the Republicans. Traitors, she had called them, ignorant peasants who could not make up their minds on what they wanted. First they wanted a democracy, so they overthrew the monarchy. Then they wanted an empire and so dismantled their newly formed republic in favor of an Emperor, but when Napoleon II displeased them, they reinstated the Bourbons. When they no longer wanted a king, they deposed Charles X and once again they were an empire under Emperor Napoleon III. Eighteen years later and the French people had changed their minds for the fifth time and decided they were once again a democracy. Despite her manic rambles, it was full of such witty, scathing humor that Gabrielle couldn't help but laugh. Clearly there was some intelligence behind her lunacy. Queen Rose had then extended an invitation for the Empress, her young son Louis-Napoleon, and her daughter-in-law Gabrielle to visit her at Dunbroch Hall, as a retreat away from Camden House and the oppressive memories of their beloved Emperor Napoleon III. Empress Eugénie had dismissed the letter; Queen Rose was not the sort of woman they wanted to associate with. There were dark rumors that surrounded her, whispers of monsters and black magic, but Gabrielle couldn't help but be intrigued by her. She learned that her real name was Rose d'Alençon, the great-granddaughter of the last Duke of Berry and a descendant of King Louis XIV. If she had been born a boy there might have been some truth in her claim to the throne, but the French were not like the English and did not recognize the legitimacy of a female heir. There had never been a queen regnant of France and, if Gabrielle was honest with herself, there would probably never be another king of France anyway, much less a queen.

All too sudden the coachman was calling for the horses to halt. The door to the carriage was thrown open and the Princess stepped out, her black frock fluttering behind her like a flock of crows. There was not a soul there to greet her; the crumbling manor was as silent as a grave, as though it had not been lived in for centuries. She had expected a bevy of servants awaiting her arrival, ready to assist her in any way, with the self-styled Queen herself standing there to greet her, but there was nothing.

For a moment Gabrielle could do nothing but stand there in stunned silence. Did she misunderstand the directions? Was she taken to the wrong estate and ended up at some forgotten manor that had long been abandoned? Or was this some kind of trick? It was true that both Gabrielle and Rose were exiled royalty, two French women lost amongst a sea of English bourgeoisie, but if Mad Rose truly believed she was the Queen of France then she could not accept Gabrielle as anything but a rival. If the Emperor had never been overthrown, if her beloved Prince had survived the Battle of Sedan, it would have been Gabrielle sitting on the French throne. What had possessed her to accept the invitation in the first place? The Princess lingered outside the carriage, unsure whether she should stay and wait or step back inside and order the coachman to take her straight back to London, when she spotted a man rushing towards her. She eyed him curiously, taking in his youthful features, straw-colored hair, and the chip in his tooth. He had this relaxed, loose-limbed air about him, which was only belied by his slovenly appearance. He wore a footman's black jacket and tie that looked as though it had originally belonged to a much larger man, matched with a pair of gardener's trousers and boots. "Forgive me, your Highness, for the lack of reception," he said. "Her Majesty is not well and she regrets not being here to meet you, but her doctor has given her strict orders to remain indoors. I am Potts, the butler."

The Princess gave a little jump at the unexpected sound of her native tongue. Even after three years of living in London, she still struggled with the harsh English language on occasion. Finding someone who could converse with her in French was like a cool breeze on a hot summer day; it was amazing how something as simple as 'Bonjour, madame' could make her feel so giddy and light-hearted. When she first saw him, Gabrielle had assumed Potts to be an errant farmer from the nearby village, perhaps serving as a messenger for Queen Rose. She would have been surprised to know that he could read, much less speak French. Gabrielle watched him direct the coachman, instructing him on where he was to take her trunks in such a graceless way that it was hard to believe he had been in service before. If Potts was a butler she would eat her hat. "I must say, your accent is flawless," she complimented.

Potts grinned at her. "Well, your Highness, that is because I am a Frenchman. My name may be English, but I was born and raised in Amboise." He gestured her to follow him. "Come now, your Highness; her Majesty awaits." The Princess smiled and followed him across the cracked cobblestone and icy mud. Potts's casual manner was somewhat shocking; Gabrielle's stepmother would have had her head if she had treated a guest in such a manner. She supposed she should have been offended by his forced intimacy, but in truth she rather enjoyed his friendly demeanor. After all, she had only been a princess for one year before the Emperor was overthrown and the royal family was forced to flee France for England; before that she had been a servant, just the same as Potts.

Gabrielle glanced up at the decaying façade of the ancient manor house as the two quietly stepped inside. It was a strange and desolate place, a setting worthy of a Brontë novel. The parts that weren't collapsing in on itself were completely mismatched: Romanesque towers coupled with Georgian columns and Gothic lancet windows, all overgrown with ivy and lichen. The Great Hall was from the Middle Ages and the foundation dated all the way back to an Anglo-Saxon fort that had once sat upon the very hill where the manor now stood. The interior was no better; the paint was peeling and the rugs were covered with mildew and everywhere, everywhere was the musty, cloying smell of disuse. For the first time, Gabrielle began to wonder just how mad this Queen Rose was. Of course, she was a lunatic, but her letter had made her seem intelligent, at least, if not pitiable. The Princess had felt sorry for this woman, a fellow exile, and saw something of a kindred spirit in her. But what kind of person could bear to live in such a place as this? Gabrielle thought of the poor raving creatures locked away in Bedlam, who slept in their own waste and howled wildly into the night. Was this what awaited her? Potts came to a stop in front of a pair of pocket doors. He pulled them open and strode inside to announce her arrival to the room's sole occupant. "Your Majesty, may I present Her Imperial Highness, Princess Gabrielle." Gabrielle cautiously stepped inside as Potts took his leave. She gasped as she took in the room, unable to do anything but marvel at the sudden change. Entering the main parlor was like stepping into a new world. It had been decorated in the Rococo style and carefully preserved through the decades. The delicate gilt molding and hand-painted murals were still as bright and beautiful as ever, so different from the rest of the house. Above the fireplace there hung the portrait of a beautiful woman; her dark hair was powdered, her lips a dusky pink, and in her lap rested an open book. Her hazel eyes had been painted with such detail that they seemed to follow Gabrielle as she entered the room. The strangest sight of all, however, was the woman in front of her. Seated on a silk tufted sofa was the curious figure of Rose d'Alençon, the self-proclaimed Queen of France. She was covered from head to toe in luxurious Oriental fabrics that were currently so fashionable amongst the artists and intellectuals of London and Paris. She wore a yellow Japonaise gown, embroidered with pink Damask roses, an azure silk turban, and a scarf wrapped about her face and neck so that the only thing Gabrielle could see were her eyes. The hazel-colored orbs stared back at her with a keen intelligence and an amused glint, as though she knew a particularly funny joke she couldn't wait to share with the Princess.

"Madame Bonaparte," the woman greeted, gesturing to a chair beside her. "Please, sit and have some tea. You must be tired from your journey." She quickly set down her own empty cup to pour one for the Princess.

Gabrielle raised a brow at the slight, but smiled and took the seat all the same with a quick retort of her own, "I'd be happy to, Mademoiselle d'Alençon." If her host refused to acknowledge her title, then Gabrielle would do the same to her.

The woman known as Queen Rose laughed at that, as though she found the little Princess to be an altogether amusing creature. "Forgive me, I did not mean to insult. One can hardly keep track of how many claimants there are to the French throne. They seem to be popping out of the woodwork."

"As you yourself should know."

"Only too true." Queen Rose's eyes crinkled and Gabrielle knew she was smiling beneath that veil, but something seemed just a little off about the expression. "I am sorry that your family was unable to make the journey, though I do hope you'll enjoy your stay."

Gabrielle's smile froze on her face as she delicately took a sip of her tea. "The Empress is too bereaved to be out in society just now and my brother-in-law was reluctant to leave her side." This wasn't completely true, but she could hardly tell her that the Empress had sneered in disgust at the mere thought of being in the same room with her, let alone willing to spend an entire month with the woman. "It's been very hard for him these past few years, losing both his brother and now his father."

"Death is always hard, especially for the young. If I'm not being too impertinent, may I ask how you are doing?"

"I am doing well," she replied with a soft smile. "I had been expecting this for some time. We all have. He was never the same after the Battle of Sedan and the death of his son." Losing their home had been hard enough, but losing their beloved Charles-Napoleon had been unbearable. Even after three years, Gabrielle still couldn't think of her charming husband without her heart wanting to tear itself out of her chest. The Princess sighed and shook her head, her eyes flitting to Rose's still empty cup. "Here, let me pour you another cup of tea."

Queen Rose shook her head. "No thank you, my doctor has me on a strict diet. Only one cup a day." One gloved hand delicately traced her veil, as though assuring herself it was still firmly in place. She quickly snatched her hand away the moment she realized Gabrielle was watching her every movement. "I must confess there is a specific reason why I invited you here," Queen Rose announced with a sudden air of determination. "I believe there is still a chance for Prince Louis-Napoleon to become Emperor of France. Not every Frenchman supported the revolution, you know, and there are plots being made even as we speak to restore the Imperial family."

Gabrielle eyed her curiously as she fingered the delicate porcelain teacup in her hands. "Forgive me, but I do not see why you would care. You are not a Bonaparte, you are a Bourbon."

"Just as there are still Imperialists in France, there are also true Monarchists even after all these years. They would give anything to see a Bourbon on the throne. My connection is the strongest amongst all the Bourbon claimants; the only thing holding me back is my sex. Still, it does not matter anyway. Neither group is strong enough to lead a revolution on our own. But, if we were to combine our causes, bring both the Bonaparte and the Bourbon supporters together, we could retake France."

"How do you suppose we do that?"

Queen Rose lazily twisted the diamond ring on one gloved finger, not even bothering to look at Gabrielle as she spoke, "I had wanted to discuss this with the Empress, but I understand she is still too grief-stricken to travel. But, perhaps it is better this way. You could be my advocate."

Gabrielle furrowed her brow. "I don't understand. Advocate for what?"

Queen Rose laughed at that and this time Gabrielle knew she was laughing at her. "The best way to bring together two opposing families is through a marriage. If I married Louis-Napoleon, then the Monarchists will get their Bourbon and the Imperialists will have their Bonaparte. Everyone is happy."

The Princess nearly dropped her cup at the suggestion. "The Imperial Prince is only seventeen years old and you... you are a woman in your thirties!" She spluttered.

"So? There have been many kings and emperors who have married older women. Eleanor of Acquitaine was Henry II's senior by eleven years."

"He is a child," the Princess insisted.

Again, her voice took on that same amused and arrogant tone. "Oh? And how old was your own husband when you married him?"

The Princess stood up and looked coolly down at the woman. "I will not present such an inappropriate proposal to the Empress. If that is the sole reason why you invited me here then I think it is best for me to leave immediately."

Queen Rose huffed out a sigh and waved her down. "Please, it was only a suggestion. There is no need for you to go rushing back to London this very moment. You can stay for the night and if you feel that you really must end your visit so soon, I will send for the carriage in the morning. In the meantime-" The woman stood up and moved over to where a long, silk cord hung from the ceiling. She pulled it, ringing the servants' bell and summoning the butler to the parlor. "-Potts will show you to your room. You will want to freshen up before dinner."

In an instant, Potts was standing in the doorway, ready to escort her out. Gabrielle threw one last look over her shoulder at the strange woman as she left. Queen Rose had moved to stand by the window, her gloved fingers absently playing with her veil as she stared distantly out across the wild plains. For a second Gabrielle could see her arrogant façade fall away, leaving nothing but a bitter, lonely creature in its place.


	3. The Rose of Dunbroch

**The Rose of Dunbroch**

Gabrielle listlessly picked at her breakfast with her spoon, too anxious and tired to bother with eating. She had not seen her host since their disastrous meeting the day before. She was glad of it, though she could not help but worry at the frosty silence from other woman. Despite what she had said, Gabrielle knew that Queen Rose was angry with her. The sooner she left, the better.

She had risen at dawn to make sure that her luggage was in order; she would need to get an early start if she wanted to reach Perth in time to catch the train back to London. This strange place was beginning to wear on her nerves. The creeping anxiety that had slowly suffused her entire being since the first moment she stepped out of the carriage had made it impossible to relax. She had slept so fitfully, plagued with terrible dreams of monsters lurking in the shadows. They had haunted the corners of her eyes, and every time she turned to look they would dance just out of sight.

"Are the eggs not to your liking, Your Highness?"

Gabrielle was startled out of her reverie by the sudden presence of Potts by her side. He had moved so silently, it was almost as if he had appeared out of thin air. "The meal was delicious," she politely answered. "A light meal is best, however, when starting a journey."

"I'm glad to hear of it, I would hate to think that my cooking could be so unappetizing," he teased.

The Princess smiled at his light and easy air. "Oh? You're the butler _and_ the cook? Is there anything you do not do?"

"I am a terrible dancer." He grinned, but just as quickly the smile faded and he regarded her solemnly. "Your Highness, I am afraid to say that your journey will have to be postponed for the time being. The roads are nothing but ice and mud from the storm last night; it is quite impassible at the moment. Her Majesty, Queen Rose, has generously offered you accommodation for however long you may need it."

Gabrielle leaned back in her chair and fixed Potts with the gentle, dumb smile that she had learned to arrange upon her face as a child, lest her stepmother realize what she was really thinking. There had been no storm; she was a light sleeper, and she had gotten so little rest last night anyway that she would have heard it. So why the deception? Did Queen Rose think she could change her mind if given enough time? Or did her host have something else planned? Whatever the reason, Gabrielle knew she should leave quickly; she could not stay in a place where the occupants were purposely trying to delude her. She would play along for now and, when the time was right, she would slip out and walk to the nearest village. Someone there would surely give her a ride to Perth. It was a few miles away, but she believed she could reach it before evening fell. She was not unused to hard labor; a few miles walk should be nothing to her. All she had to do was get away from the manor. "That would be delightful," Gabrielle replied. "If you would unpack my trunks, I think I will take a turn about the garden before the weather turns bad again."

Potts bowed to her as she dropped her napkin onto the table and quickly left the dining room. Gabrielle moved swiftly through the manor, retrieving her thick winter cloak and gloves from her room, before nearly flinging herself out the door and into the garden. Gabrielle gasped as the sharp, biting wind slapped her face. Her heart was racing wildly with fear and adrenaline, so fast and hard that she thought she might die from it. Her corset seemed to squeeze her tighter, like a python; she could not catch her breath. Gabrielle wiped away the cold sweat that had gathered at her brow. She needed to calm herself. It would do her no good if she fainted. Gabrielle placed a hand against her stomach and forced herself to breathe through her nose. She was not helpless; she would not allow Queen Rose to frighten her. She was no longer that little girl cowering from her stepmother's cruel gaze. She was a Princess. She had allies that were more powerful than any mortal.

Gabrielle felt herself grow calm. She quickly straightened her cloak and patted her blonde hair in place, before beginning a casual stroll about the garden. It was the dead of winter and so there was not much to see. Everything was gray and lifeless, much like the manor itself. She supposed it must be lovely in the spring, but Gabrielle couldn't imagine anything growing in such a place as this. The Princess moved through a hedge of roses, their thorns sticking into her dress as she moved past, when a flash of color caught her eye. Gabrielle peeked through the leafless, brown thicket and saw to her surprise a rose in full bloom. The perfume was heady, much stronger than the modern roses that were becoming so popular. The Princess reached out and touched the ice-covered petals, marveling at how such a thing could exist at this time of year. She traced one delicate, pink edge before suddenly pulling away, shaking her head at how easily she had been distracted. She gathered up her skirts and looked about her, making sure that courtyard was empty before darting through the hedges and out onto the snow-covered fields. She never noticed the dark figure in the high window, watching her every movement.

* * *

Gabrielle shoved her hands underneath her arms, trying desperately to keep warm as the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon. She had been walking all day and still there was no sign of this mysterious village she had been told about. Occasionally she would stumble across a small farmhouse that had long been abandoned; sometimes she would see the ruins of a chimney or the crumbling foundation of a house long forgotten. Once she saw a cobblestone street buried beneath the snow, cracked and broken with brown, dead grasses shooting through. Where it led, she had not a clue. In an hour she would no longer be able to see the well-worn path; then what would happen would happen to her? She had heard there were wolves that lurked in the forest at night. The Princess eyed the forboding trees in the distance and shivered at the thought. She trudged on, the snow and ice crunching with each lopsided step that she took. She had lost one of her heels a few miles back; she was dressed simply in a pair of walking boots, after all, not at all fit for this kind of weather or terrain. If she had worn anything more sturdy Potts and his mistress might have suspected her plans.

The Princess pulled her cloak in tighter as twilight fell upon the Scottish wilds. She needed to find shelter; if she didn't she could freeze to death. There was no way she was going to turn back. Gabrielle couldn't help but wonder if perhaps she had overreacted. Maybe there really had been a storm and she had simply slept through it; it was possible, after all. But then the land looked much the same as it had when she arrived; some snow had fallen, yes, but not enough to make travel impossible. Her carriage had arrived here in fine form, so why could it not take her back? Even if she wanted to return to Dunbroch it was miles away and it would be impossible to find her way back in the dark.

Gabrielle stopped at the sound of heavy hooves beating against the frozen ground. She turned around and smirked at the sight of a lone cart being pulled along by a large draft horse. Apparently, the ground was not so treacherous after all. The cart pulled to a halt beside her and the Princess stared up at the portly driver. The man had brown hair sticking out from underneath his wide-brimmed hat that was curled in such an old-fashioned style, she didn't think men had worn their hair that way for at least one hundred years. "Would you care for a lift, Madame?" He asked in a clipped, English accent. _How strange_, the Princess mused. He sounded like the English lords the Empress entertained at Camden House, unlike the thick accent of a Scottish farmer that she had been expecting.

"Yes, thank you," she replied gratefully and was surprised by the way the man stepped out of the cart to give her hand, bowing with the pompous flourish of a middle-class tradesman putting on airs. Gabrielle eyed him warily as he climbed back in and started off. "I am so glad you drove by. I am staying with some friends near here and had decided to do a little exploring, but I'm afraid I became hopelessly lost." She gave a little laugh and hoped he didn't see through her lie. "I do not know what would have happened if you had not shown up."

"Not to worry, Madame," he assured. "William Cogsworth, at your service."

"Gabrielle Tremaine," she replied. She hadn't used her maiden name in four years, but it still rolled easily off her tongue.

"I am happy to meet your acquaintance, Madame Tremaine," he said. "It is a shame we did not meet earlier. I could have given you an excellent tour of the countryside. Very few people know the history of this place as well as I."

"You are a historian then?"

"An amateur historian," Cogsworth replied. He then pointed up towards a hill where a group of large stones had been placed in a circle; they looked stark black against the blue twilight sky. Gabrielle could just make out the Celtic runes carved into the sides in the dim light. "That is the Dunbroch Menhir, one of several groups of standing stones that dot the British Isles. Local legend has it that if you visit the stones at night a will-o-wisp will appear to you and lead you to your destiny." Cogsworth smiled at her. "But I'm sure a lady such as yourself does not believe in such fairy tales."

"On the contrary, I am a firm believer in magic," she replied with a secret smile of her own.

Although the smile never wavered from his face, his expression grew suddenly sad. "That is good," he said. "It will make things easier."

Gabrielle frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"Your Highness, it is good to see that you are back."

Gabrielle nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw that she was back at the manor. Potts standing by the cart with one hand on the horse's reigns, looking up at her expectantly. They had been travelling in the opposite direction. She _knew_ it. How could this have happened? "I thought you were going to take me to the village!" Gabrielle exclaimed.

"Madame, the village has been abandoned for some time. The last of the inhabitants moved out some years ago when-" Cogsworth stopped himself, shooting a worried glance at Potts before turning back to Gabrielle. "The closest village is Scone. However, it would take you days to reach it on foot."

"And you will not take me by carriage?" Gabrielle demanded, glancing back and forth between the two men. Their silence told her everything she needed to know.

"A fire has been lit in your room and I have left a tray with your supper in there. I believe it is still warm," Potts said instead.

Gabrielle stepped down from the cart, ignoring the way Potts held out a hand to help her. She silently strode across the courtyard towards the manor, leaving Potts and Cogsworth behind in her wake. "This is getting out of hand! You must speak with Her Grace," one of them whispered.

"You mean _Her Majesty._" There was a definite sneer in the man's tone. "And what exactly am I supposed to say? I don't recall you telling off the Duke when he held Belle prisoner against her will. 'Remember what the Master said! Remember what the Master said!'" The other mocked harshly in a high-pitched voice.

Gabrielle could hear no more as she entered the manor, their voices drowned out by her own quiet, shaking sobs. "Please, help me, Godmother."


	4. Creatures in the Dark

**Creatures in the Dark**

Her Godmother did not come that night. Nor did she come the next day or the day after that.

A week had passed and Gabrielle was no closer to gaining her freedom. Every plan she came up with proved useless in the face of the Queen's watchful gaze and her faithful, ever-present dog, Potts. It was not an unpleasant imprisonment. No one harmed her or belittled her or forced her to do anything she did not want to do; other than holding her captive against her will, of course. By far the worse thing she had to endure was Queen Rose's daily visit. Every afternoon she would summon her so-called guest for a cup of tea, chatting amiably with her as though they were long-time friends. Gabrielle refused to speak with her; she wouldn't even so much as look at her, not that it ever deterred the other woman.

Queen Rose set her still-full cup upon the table as she talked endlessly about her childhood at Dunbroch, back when the manor was at its height of glory. That was another oddity of her host. Despite the fact that Queen Rose always insisted on having afternoon tea, Gabrielle had never actually seen her drink it. She had never seen her do anything that might dislodged the veil that always hid her face from view. Gabrielle let her gaze run over the woman; not a single inch of skin could be seen. The only thing that remained uncovered was her hazel eyes. It was eccentric, but what could she expect of a lunatic and a kidnapper? Still, it was strange and Gabrielle could not help but wonder at the purpose of it. Then she remembered. Words of Queen Rose's delicate health suddenly took on a new meaning as they came rushing back to her. Gabrielle shakily set her cup down as realization dawned, her stomach rolling at the thought. _Leprosy_. That was why the woman covered her body, to hide the warped flesh disfigured by the disease.

The hazel eyes of Queen Rose crinkled in amusement at the way Gabrielle unconsciously leaned away from her. "I know what you're thinking," she said. "Trust me, leprosy would have been a Godsend. The truth is much worse, I'm afraid."

Gabrielle didn't know what to say. What could Queen Rose possibly mean by that? "Why don't you tell me about France?" The older woman prompted. "I've never actually set foot there, you know. My grandparents fled here during the Revolution - the first one - and my family has never left since. They never gave up their claim to the Duchy of Berry, though they were more Scottish than French by the time I came along."

Gabrielle said nothing to this and the long minutes ticked by. Queen Rose sighed in frustration at her lack of cooperation. "A conversation, by definition, generally requires more than one person talking," she snapped. "You do not want to talk about the home you were exiled from? Fine. What about your life before you wed your charming Prince? Your family? You could tell me how you came to be known by the delightful nickname 'Cinderella'."

A red haze overtook her senses at the sound of her stepsisters' old childhood jeer. She was halfway out of her chair before she was stopped by one elegant, gloved hand upon her arm. "Sit," Queen Rose commanded. "I apologize for the insult. I spoke out of anger. it is a fault that runs thick through my bloodline; the d'Alençons are well known around these parts for their temper. Please do not think that I am one of those ladies who cannot bear the thought that commoners might be just as worthwhile as any aristocrat. In fact, my great-great-grandmother was a commoner before she married the Duke of Berry." Queen Rose gestured to the portrait of the beautiful woman that watched over the parlor with her keen eyes. "Her name was Belle de Villeneuve. They say she was a witch. Supposedly, she and the Duke had been banished from Versailles by King Louis XV for practicing black magic."

Gabrielle looked up at pretty face that stared down at her. There was nothing sinister about her visage, but there must have been something dark and terrible in her to begat such a creature as Queen Rose.

* * *

Gabrielle laid on top of her bed, her hands resting across her stomach as her thoughts raced in circles around her mind. She imagined stealing a horse and riding straight through to Perth. Perhaps she could get a letter out to the Empress, a real letter and not the fake ones Queen Rose forged. She could tell her everything and within a day the police would descend upon this little country manor like locusts. Maybe if she prayed hard enough her Godmother would finally hear her and whisk her away in an enchanted carriage. They could fly over the snow-covered fields all the way back to London.

Every little dream of escape only became more ridiculous as time went on.

If she was braver, or smarter, she might be able to get away. But she was none of those things. She was Cinderella. She was stupid and weak. She swept away the dirt and dreamed about dances and pretty dresses. A beautiful little dream that could never be pierced by her stepmother's words. What a little fool she was.

There was a sound. A high-pitched girlish giggle. A tune being hummed.

Gabrielle sat up in bed and listened hard. She could hear a woman's voice outside of her room. She was singing. "Histoire éternelle... aussi réelle qu'elle pourait l'être... entre deux amis qu'un... geste rapproche... imprévisiblement..." The voice broke off into humming once more as she passed by her door, the sound drifting further and further away.

The Princess threw on a robe and quietly crept to her door, cracking it open just a sliver to peek out into the hallway. She looked out just in time to see a dark-haired woman in a maid's uniform, her arms laden with dirty laundry, disappear around the corner. The only servant she had ever seen at Dunbroch was Potts. During the day he seemed to take on any task required of him: he was the butler, the cook, the footman, the maid, and anything and everything Queen Rose asked of him. He did it all. It would take a special sort of person to serve such a mistress as Queen Rose, and the Princess hadn't thought anyone would have been up to the task, much less two people. Gabrielle slipped out of her room and followed the girl silently. As she came around the corner she saw a door had been left ajar and the light of a flickering candle was casting shadows across the old, rotten wood. Neither Potts nor Cogsworth had been willing to help her, but perhaps she could find a sympathetic soul in this little maid. As gallant as men could be, only another woman could truly understand the fears and dangers the female sex were so often subjected to. Gabrielle stepped into the room, ready to call out to the mysterious maid, only to find the place empty. A lit candle was perched upon a table, but other than that there was not a sign that anyone had ever been here. There were not even footprints in the dust.

Gabrielle felt her heart thunder inside her chest as she looked about. The room seemed to serve as storage. There were trunks haphazardly thrown about, old paintings stacked against one wall, and a little heeled shoe lying carelessly across the floor, looking lost and lonely without its mate. What could a maid possibly doing here at this time of night? And where did she go? Cogsworth had mentioned magic, perhaps there was more to this old manor and its mysterious inhabitants. The only way to find out was to do a little digging of her own. The Princess kneelt before one of the trunks and pushed it open, peering curiously inside. It was full of odds and ends: empty perfume bottles, spotted photographs, and stacks of paper, yellowed with age. She reached and pulled out a thick bundle of letters that had been tied together with a ribbon. _Paris, 1737... London, 1690... Edinburgh, 1832..._ _Virginia, 1714..._ The letters were from all over the world and spanned across centuries.

Fascinated, she tugged one of the letters free and began to read-

_December 30, 1729 _

_My Dear Babette, _

_I am afraid you have completely knocked me off my feet, my little maid. I find that I am unsure of what I should do. I have never been wooed by a woman before. I feel as though I am Daphne and you are Apollo. I, the hunter, have now become your prey. You have chased me through the forest, inflamed by Cupid's golden arrow, its tip sharp and glittering piercing you to the bones and marrow. Does the love in your breast burn so bright? Forgive me if I seem suspicious of your intentions but I remember not long ago you had hunted Monsieur Laurent like a hound on the scent of a doe. It was not love you were after, but his wealth. I must tell you that I do not own a single silver __écu__ to my name. Does this deter you, Mademoiselle? Or does your passion still burn? _

_If you still want me then you must know I will not flee. I am no virgin huntress, no acolyte of Diana. I shall turn to face you. I will not back down from love's challenge. If you continue to pursue me be aware that my skills rival your own. I will best you at your own game for I have never met another who could match me in the ways of love. I have loved a great many of women and all have quaked and trembled at the knowledge I possessed and the skill held within my fingers and lips and body. A woman is a delicate instrument, one that I have spent my life studying. I will make you sing. _

_You, my bright young thing, seem to believe that you can take on this old master. Very well, I will accept your challenge. Come into my rooms, make me gasp your name, make me beg you for more. Fill my mind with thoughts of you, make me know no other emotion but the ecstasy you give me. If you can do this then I will bow down and call you Mistress. _

_Come if you think you can make me yours. _

_François _

Gabrielle blushed and smiled mischievously at the beautiful lines scrawled across the parchment. Love letters! She had always adored love stories. After spending an entire day, from dawn until dusk, cooking and cleaning for her stepmother and stepsisters, she would crawl into her bed late at night, tired and exhausted, and pull out a book. She had loved her French translations of _Jane Eyre_, _Wuthering Heights_, and _Pride and Prejudice _until they had become so worn and dirty that the pages were falling from their seams and the covers were illegible from stains.

Gabrielle felt her ears prick at the sound of scuffling. Carefully putting the fragile letters into the pocket of her robe, she peered into the dim light. It had almost sounded like mice, not that she was afraid of mice. Her stepmother had forced her to sleep in the attic where the sounds of their little claws scratching against the floor and between the walls had lulled her to sleep. The only problem was that it sounded much, much larger than a mouse.

She peered into the shadowed corners where the candle light could not reach, trying to locate the source of the sound, when she saw something flutter and step out of the darkness. Gabrielle stepped back, her mouth dropping open in a scream as a hideous creature stood before her. It was half-woman and half-moth. It's face and torso was that of a human, but the lower body was all insect. Giant brown wings blew up dust with every fluttering beat. It's face might have been beautiful, but when it opened it's mouth Gabrielle could see the black proboscis slip out from between it's full, red lips.

The creature moved towards her on four spindly black legs, it's bare white arms reaching out to touch her. With another scream Gabrielle fled the room, racing through the manor in a desperate attempt to reach the entrance hall. There was no Potts to stop her this time; she would leave the manor tonight, even if it meant freezing, lost in the wild on some winter's night. She would not be prey to some monster. Gabrielle ran into the Great Hall and flung herself at the doors, tugging with all her might. They would not budge. Gabrielle felt herself gasping, trying desperately to breathe through her panic. She could hear the flapping of wings, impossibly loud. As a dark shadow fell over her, the Princess looked up to see the monster crawling across the ceiling towards her.

It was the last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her.


	5. A Funeral and a Journey

**A Funeral and a Journey**

Gabrielle could feel herself hovering on the precipice of consciousness as a pair of strong arms wrapped around her. If she were not careful, the blessed darkness would slip away and she would find herself plunging head first into that bright, waking world filled with monsters and wicked queens. She floated through the air, so weightless and lightheaded, before landing on a bed of feathers. A broad, callused palm stroked her face. It was only then that Gabrielle felt brave enough to slowly open her eyes and look around. From the single lamp that had been lit, she could see that she was lying on a dust-covered couch in one of the dilapidated parlors that was just off the entrance hall. Potts was sitting beside her, his hand resting against her forehead and a worried look in his eyes. "How are you feeling?" He asked.

"I saw a monster," Gabrielle croaked out. Her voice was harsh and rough; just the sound of it was enough to make her head pound. She tried to swallow, but her tongue felt heavy.

There was no reaction in Potts's face. It was like he hadn't even heard her. "I'm going to help you to your room. Do you think you can manage the stairs?" Potts asked. "We need to get you in bed. You've got a fever. God only knows how long you were lying there before I found you. Come on, now." He looped her arms around his neck and stood up, his hands braced against her back. Gabrielle's head swam as she suddenly found herself standing upright.

"But the monster..." The Princess protested.

"There is no monster," Potts replied. "It was just a fever dream. Come on, now, watch your step." They slowly made their way through the manor and by the time Gabrielle was able to slip into bed her entire body ached. The man pulled the covers over her and brushed back her sweat-soaked hair. "I'll fetch a doctor, you'll feel better in no time."

Potts slipped out of the room then, leaving the Princess to stare blearily up at the ceiling with thoughts of the monster still flitting across her mind. It was not a delusion, she knew it wasn't. With a jolt she realized her robe was still firmly clasped about her waist. She slipped her fingers into her pocket and excitedly felt the rough edges of the bundle of letters she had found. She was right. It had happened. There really was a monster.

Determination burned away the pain from her limbs as she sat up and stared down at the little bundle in her lap. The letters were so yellowed and frayed that Gabrielle felt that they would crumble into dust at any moment. She hesitated only for a moment, carefully fingering the white ribbon that held the bundle together, before pulling at one end, unraveling the bow. She picked up a letter, one that was heavily stained. Even after all these years, there was still a lingering scent that clung to the paper, a wispy perfume of sweet cakes and lavender and black tea. She unfolded the letter and stared down at the tidy scrawl. It was in English, and had she found this letter only a few years ago it would have been undecipherable to her. Gabrielle lifted the letter up to the single candle Potts had left before he went. It was written on August 20, 1701. Nearly one hundred and eighty years ago. She squinted at the faded lines, trying to make out the words.

_Dearest Eleanor..._

* * *

_England, 1701_

_Dearest Eleanor,_

_The wind has failed... I worry we might never see America..._

Charlotte peeked down into the simple wooden box that held the body of her father. She had read a poem once about a beautiful, young girl that had died. Her lover had wept beside her body, crying out that even then she was so beautiful that she looked as though she was only sleeping. Seeing her father now, Charlotte couldn't help but think how silly that poem was. Her father didn't look like he was sleeping; he just looked dead.

Amelia stood by her side, scowling down at figure in the coffin. "Are you sure the undertaker didn't mix up the bodies?" She asked. "It doesn't look like him. His face is different."

"He does look different," Charlotte mused as she absently brushed away the errant strands of her sister's hair that had fallen from underneath her cap. "He's not smiling." Her father had always been smiling and laughing. It was so strange to look at his face now and see nothing.

"That better be him, alright, for what I paid" Robert announced as he came sweeping into the parlor. "The bill was outrageous. £50! It's highway robbery!" He grumbled, only stopping in his complaints to take a breath. "Has anyone seen my hat? I better look upstairs."

"Jane, sweetheart!" Eleanor called out just as Robert made his way up the stairwell. Jane slunk out from the dark corner she had hid herself in, looking up at Eleanor with her large, dark eyes that always seemed so serious. "The guests will be here at any moment. Go get the favors and be ready to pass them out. There's a good girl."

"Is there something I should do?" Anne asked. Hearing the quaver in her voice shook Charlotte to the core; she sounded so lost. Charlotte turned to see her mother sitting upon the sofa, her hands clasped nervously together like a child, looking about her for some sort of direction or sign. Charlotte had always thought that her mother had been exceptionally pretty for a woman her age, but now she just looked old and tired. For the first time, she could really see the streaks of white running through her red hair and how loose her skin had become around her mouth and cheeks.

"No, Mother, you needn't worry about a thing. Robert and I have taken care of everything," Eleanor assured her.

"Eleanor! Have you seen my hat!?" The sound of Robert's voice seemed to echo down the stairs.

Eleanor snorted angrily before yelling back at her husband, "It's wherever you last put it!"

"I don't remember where that is!"

"Do not make me come up there!"

Amelia burst into giggles at the sounds of her sister arguing with her husband. She immediately slapped her hand across her mouth to stifle the sound, forgetting for a moment that this was a somber day. Anne smiled gently at her young daughter, opening her arms for her. "It's alright, darling, you can laugh," she said as she pulled her girl in close to her chest.

"I can see the rector coming up the lane now," Jane announced.

"Is Mr. Potts with him!?" Eleanor demanded, pushing her sister away from the window in such a flurry of movement that mousy, little Jane suddenly found herself standing in the middle of the parlor, blinking dazedly at her sisters and mother in confusion. "That's him! He's there, walking with Mr. Thompson. Oh!" In a second, Eleanor had rounded on Charlotte, reaching out to pinch her cheeks. Charlotte yelped and tried to slap her hands away, but Eleanor persisted. "I'm just putting a little color in your cheeks, honestly," Eleanor huffed. "You have such a pretty complexion, this will help show it off. Thank God you didn't end up with Father's freckles, like poor Amelia."

"Hey!" Amelia interjected from where she sat on her mother's lap.

"This is a _funeral_, Eleanor, not a ball," Charlotte insisted. "It is hardly appropriate."

"When you're starving to death, you won't much care about propriety."

"I can always go back to work for Lady Pembroke," Charlotte pointed out. "Mrs. Tanner, the housekeeper, really liked me. I had already been promoted to second maid by the time I left."

"Yes, but hopefully Mr. Potts will take a liking to you and it won't have to come to that," Eleanor insisted as she smoothed back Charlotte's scarlet hair. "You don't want to spend your entire life in service, do you? You will want a husband and children eventually and Mr. Potts would be a wonderful match."

A sharp rap at the door halted any more protests on the subject. Robert flew down the stairs, hat firmly on his head, to welcome the guests into their home. As the villagers pressed around the body centered on the table, the rector came up to Anne and shook her hand. "I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Baker. Your husband was truly a God-fearing man and this village is sorrier to have lost him." The rector smiled down at Amelia and patted her on the head. "God has blessed you, though, with the love of such goodly daughters to comfort you in your time of need." He nodded towards Eleanor, Charlotte, and Jane. He had known the Baker girls since they were infants; anyone could see the pride in his face at how they had grown.

Charlotte could only smile wanly back. Her eyes flitted over to where Mr. Oliver Potts stood brooding in a corner. He was much older than she had thought he would be; he looked almost as old as her father. He had a sharp, thin face with a long nose and impeccably smooth cheeks without so much as a hint of stubble to them. His pale, watery eyes raked over her, only to glance quickly away when he saw her staring. This was the man her sister wanted her to marry: a severe-looking widower who would take her far away from home, all the way across the ocean to another country. A good daughter would not put up a fuss. A good daughter would say yes and be happy at her lot in life. Without Father, there was no way that Mother could pay the rent on their cottage, and Eleanor and Robert could not afford to feed and keep all of them, not with a baby of their own on the way. Jane and Amelia were still not of marriageable age, which left only Charlotte. Even if Charlotte left with this strange man, it might still not be enough to keep her family well.

As Jane went around to pass out the favors to the mourners, Eleanor took Charlotte by the arm to introduce her to Mr. Potts. "Mr. Potts," Eleanor said. "I would like for you to meet my sister, Charlotte."

"It is a pleasure," he said with a bow. "I could only wish that it were under happier circumstances." His manners were impeccable, though his expression never changed from that dour look that seemed permanently etched upon his face. Everything about him seemed mechanical and awkward, as though he were not quite human.

"I am sorry to hear of your own loss," Charlotte stated.

For a fleeting moment Charlotte thought she had seen genuine emotion on the man's face, but it was gone in a flash. "Yes, my wife," he said and nothing else.

For what seemed like an eternity, the three of them could only stand there aimlessly as they searched for something to say. Finally, Eleanor spoke in a desperate attempt to relieve the awkwardness of the situation. "You have met his brother, William Potts, haven't you, Charlotte? He is my husband's employer."

"No, I'm afraid I have not yet had that pleasure," Charlotte replied stiffly, knowing that her sister was fully aware that she had never met the man.

Instead of sustaining the conversation, perhaps by giving an anecdote of his brother, Mr. Potts said nothing and simply stared at the two women with dull eyes. "I should see how Mother is doing," Eleanor announced and made a hasty retreat, leaving her younger sister to fend for herself.

"When will you be returning to America, Mr. Potts?" Hopefully, a direct question would pry open the man's mouth.

"In a month. Hopefully, I will have acquired a wife by then."

Charlotte could feel her face redden at his frankness. She knew that was his sole reason for coming to England in the first place, but still... To just put forth his intentions in such a way! It was unseemly. Not to mention he spoke of _acquiring_ a wife as though he were purchasing a plot of land. Did he really think so little of the women around him? "And... Did you have someone in mind?" Charlotte asked.

Mr. Potts shrugged. "To be honest, I do not care who she is, so long as she keeps a good house and tends to my children." He suddenly narrowed his eyes at her, studying her. "When I told William of my plans he suggested you, but you seem awfully young to me. How old are you, if I may ask?"

"I will be sixteen in a week."

"Good Lord," he exclaimed. "That's only a few years older than my Rachel. What a pair we are."

There was no time to say anything else for the coffin was being nailed shut and the men were hefting it onto their shoulders. The mourners trailed after the shuffling pallbearers, crying and wailing all the while. The unhappy procession made their way through the village to the church courtyard for the burial; already men were hard at work digging her father a hole. As the men lowered the coffin into the ground, it suddenly occurred to Charlotte that she would never see his face again, not until she too was dead and buried. There had been so much to do since his death that Charlotte hadn't had the time to even feel sad, but now there was nothing stop the tears from flowing down her face. As Charlotte cried out her loss, she could feel Eleanor wrap her arm around her shoulder and Jane clasp her hand and Amelia holding fast to her skirt. Together they listened to the rector's baleful lamentation.

Two weeks later, Charlotte found herself on a ship heading towards a new country with a new name: Mrs. Potts.


	6. The Soldier Appears

**The Soldier Appears**

For the first time in her life, Charlotte was alone. She shivered as she peeked out the window, trying to see through the frost that had spread across the glass. It was so quiet. It felt like she was living on the edge of the world. She had imagined that living on the American frontier would be a grand adventure. She would meet Indians and see strange new animals and explore places that no one had ever been to. She hadn't imagined the loneliness, the isolation, and the oppressive silence. The only people she saw were Mr. Potts and his daughters. Once a month they would take a trip to the nearest town, miles and miles away from their little one-room cabin, to attend church and do a little shopping. Charlotte yearned to make the acquaintance of the village women; she just wanted someone to call a friend, someone to talk to. But before she knew it Mr. Potts would be herding them back into the wagon, never allowing her or the girls a moment to themselves. He did not want them associating with such Godless folk, as he termed it. No one in town seemed to be good enough for Mr. Potts. All the way back home, Charlotte would be treated to Mr. Potts' dull condemnations of his neighbors. Mr. Tanner had married a Catholic, the Harrisons never went to church, Mr. and Mrs. Black were Quakers, and so on and so forth. He seemed to think that merely associating with them would somehow taint him in the eyes of the Lord. More than once Charlotte had wanted to snap at him, to demand just who exactly was worthy of his time since there were so many who _weren't_. Had not Jesus commanded man to love thy neighbor as thyself? She never said anything though; she didn't want to argue and it never seemed worth it. Besides, if she could not find companionship in her own husband then what would that say about her as a wife? Charlotte had resigned herself. There would be no adventures, not for her. There was nothing here, nothing but her work and her family and that damnable forest that went on for miles and miles. She hated the forest. The black woods seemed to press in on all sides and, she was sure she was being silly for thinking such things, but there seemed to be something primordial and dangerous lurking in the darkness. Nights were worse for that was when the wolves came out. She could hear them howling, restlessly pacing by the door, waiting their chance to sneak in and drag one of them away. They were so far from town, if anything were to happen...

Charlotte shook the cobwebs from her mind and tried to focus on her work. Needle in hand she resumed her sewing, breathing in the smell of cornpone that she had left on the table for Mr. Potts and the girls. She carefully began to hem the an calico dress for Rachel, tucking in the bodice and adding scalloped ruffles to the sleeves in order to hide her long, ungainly arms. The dress had once belonged to Mr. Potts's late wife, Rebecca. Mr. Potts had suggested not long after she arrived to make use of them instead of wasting time and money making her own clothes; as if she would wear his dead wife's dresses! The thought was positively ghoulish. Charlotte was no one's replacement, but that seemed to be how Mr. Potts viewed her. It was better to give them to Rachel to wear; it might bring some comfort to her in her grief. All of Rebecca's things were still here, carelessly placed as though she had only popped out for a moment and would return shortly. Her pots and pans, quilts and pillows, loom and spindle and broom and linens... Rebecca's presence permeated through the house like an unwanted spirit, making Charlotte feel more like a guest than its new mistress. _Rebecca! Rebecca!_ That was all she ever seemed to hear. Mr. Potts always had a parable to tell about his virtuous first wife and how Charlotte might be able to learn from her example, and if it wasn't Mr. Potts then it was Rachel and her snide comparisons. Rachel seemed to take delight in pointing out Charlotte's mistakes, informing her that the way she cooked or cleaned or any other little thing she did was wrong and not the way her mother would have gone about it. Only little Sarah seemed to like and appreciate her as she was. All this talk about Rebecca was enough to drive her mad. Still, she supposed she shouldn't think ill of the dead. She should be gracious and well-mannered; Charlotte never could abide rudeness.

Charlotte nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the door slam open. There, in the doorway, stood a frightful sight. It looked as though Rachel had gotten into a brawl and come out looking worse for wear. Her face was covered in manure and scratches, mixed with tears and snot, and in her limp hand she clutched a battered milk pail, which told the story. Sarah came in behind her, giggling and spilling the milk she carried across the floor with each step. "Mummy! Mamie kicked Rachel off her stool!" The little girl crowed out, laughing with each word.

It happened so fast that Charlotte hadn't any time to react. Suddenly Rachel was drawing her hand back and with a crack like thunder she struck Sarah across the face. "She is _not _your mother!" Rachel berated while the child screamed.

Charlotte immediately pulled Sarah into her arms and glared up at Rachel. "You should be ashamed of yourself! Why, I have half a mind-"

"To do what?" Rachel challenged. She was only three years younger than Charlotte herself, but she towered over her. At five feet, nine inches Rachel was a good head taller than her and had a lean, stringy look that hid how strong she really was. Charlotte couldn't exactly take a switch to her; she doubt she could ever win a fight against Rachel if it came down to it.

"I am telling your father about this," Charlotte hissed as she scooped Sarah up. "Come on, let's go find Mr. Potts," she cooed as she brushed back the little girl's long brown hair. Sarah gave a little sniffle and buried her face in her neck; Charlotte could feel her tears soak into her skin. With one last glare at Rachel, Charlotte stepped outside, shutting the door behind her. The crisp autumn air bit into her lungs; fall was almost over and winter was beginning to set in, making everything look gloomy and dead. There was a strange acrid smell in the air, as though something was burning. Looking up, Charlotte could see a column of smoke far in the distance. Frowning, she wondered what it could possibly be when the sound of crunching leaves stole her attention. Charlotte felt her heart leap into her throat as thoughts of wolves and spirits came rushing back to her, but when she turned to look she saw a soldier limping out of the forest, his bloodied arm buried inside his blue frock coat.

"_Aidez-moi_," he whispered before collapsing onto his knees.

"Go find your father, and quickly," Charlotte commanded as she set Sarah down. The little girl took off running as soon as her feet touched the ground, crying out for someone to help. Charlotte looked back at the French soldier and gently reached out to touch his shoulder, pulling back his coat to look at the grisly stump that had once been his hand.

* * *

Gabrielle quickly shoved the letters underneath her pillow as the door to her bedroom slowly creaked opened. She could feel a cold sweat break out over her forehead as she blew out the candle and settled into her pillows, hoping that whoever it was would think she was asleep. The doctor had been coming in and out all day to check on her fever, with Potts standing guard in the corner to ensure she didn't say anything to give away his mistress's plot. But he had long since left and Potts had gone to bed. Who could possibly be coming into her room this late at night? Unless it was that horrible monster come to finish what it had started.

The Princess could hear the soft _swish, swish_ of a woman's skirt brushing against the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to calm the panicked fluttering of her heart. It could be only one person: Queen Rose. She had not visited her all day - indeed, the only time she ever saw her was in the parlor for tea - and Gabrielle could not think of any reason why she would appear now. She wished she would just stay away. Just the thought of her would fill her stomach sick with dread.

A broad hand brushed against her cheek, feeling for her fever. The wrinkled skin was ice-cold and Gabrielle shivered at the touch. It took her a moment to realize that the hand was not gloved; this woman was not Rose. Gabrielle blinked her eyes open and looked up to see an old woman smiling kindly down at her. She had a round, fleshy face and a shock of white hair curling out from underneath her old-fashioned cap. "How are you feeling, my dear?" She asked in stilted French. The Princess could tell by her accent that she was not a native speaker.

With a jolt, Gabrielle sat up. She felt her head swim at the sudden movement, her stomach growing sick, but she had to make this woman understand. The Princess grasped her by the arms with clammy palms and croaked out, "Please, you have to help me. That _woman_ - the one who calls herself Queen Rose - she's holding me captive. She wants to marry my brother-in-law and restore the monarchy in France. And there's a monster! Some sort of giant, moth-like creature!"

"Alright, alright," the woman cooed as she patted her hair soothingly. "You'll lose your voice if you keep this up."

"You don't believe me," Gabrielle accused.

The woman smiled sadly. "I believe you," she answered. "I've seen the creature myself. You have nothing to fear. She won't hurt you. She's just... desperate."

Gabrielle frowned at the old woman, unsure if she was referring to the monster or Rose. "Will you help me escape? I need to return to the Empress. Who knows what Queen Rose has been telling her."

The old woman looked torn. "I am afraid I cannot," she said haltingly.

"You could, you're just afraid to."

"No," the old woman shook her head. "I really can't. I am... _bound_... to my mistress."

"Is this magic?" Gabrielle whispered, leaning forward. "Cogsworth said- Is this place cursed? I know a bit about magic. My godmother is a powerful fairy. I called to her, I begged her to help me, but she never came."

"She wouldn't be able to. The curse keeps the outside world away. Only those who Queen Rose wishes are allowed in. The barrier is unbreakable; no witch or fairy could penetrate it," the old woman explained. Gabrielle could feel the tears well up in her eyes at the words; if her godmother couldn't help her then she didn't know who could. The old woman clucked and brushed away her tears. "Oh, it'll be alright. You mustn't lose hope. Curses can be broken."

"How?" Gabrielle asked.

Again, the old woman shook her head. "I cannot tell you that either. The only thing that I can say is to try to be understanding. Her Grace-"

_"Her Grace?"_ Gabrielle interrupted with a snort. "Did you forget? She likes to imagine herself as a Queen! How could I possibly understand her? The woman has delusions of grandeur. She's mad. She is holding me captive. How could you ask that of me? I had allowed myself to be debased and used for years; I will not permit it to happen again! I am a Princess! She's not even a real Duchess! The title is a courtesy, nothing more!"

The old woman pulled away at that and Gabrielle could feel the guilt and shame well up inside her. Her father and godmother would be disappointed in her. What had happened to her kindness? To her sympathy? She had tried not to let her stepmother take it from her; she didn't want to end up like her, obsessed with power and wealth and willing to crush anyone who got in her way. But the thought of spending one extra minute in the company of Queen Rose... "I will be civil," Gabrielle stated, her throat burning from overuse. "But if there is a chance for me to escape, I will take it."

"That's all I ask, dear," the old woman replied. "In time, you might come to sympathize with her. She has had a hard life. In the meantime, do not be afraid to ask my son for help."

Gabrielle blinked in surprise at the sudden mention of a son. "Your son? Do you mean Potts? Are you his mother?"

"Mrs. Potts, at your service. Formally, I am Her Grace's cook and housekeeper, but my Timothy will take over my duties when I am unavailable," she said. "He's been a good boy, I hope?"

"Hardly. He does whatever Queen Rose commands of him."

"I'm afraid he is as bound to her as I am. The curse limits what he is able to do."

"His cooking could use some work," Gabrielle stated lightly.

Mrs. Potts laughed. "Yes, well, that has never been a talent of his. Goodnight, my dear. If you want to try and break the curse then you'll need to rest and get yourself well again." She patted her hand and left, slipping out the door with hardly a sound. Gabrielle settled deep into her blankets, drowsy and tired and aching. She could hear the letters crinkle from underneath her pillow as she got comfortable. She wondered sleepily if Mrs. Potts and her son were descendants of the young Charlotte Potts she had been reading so much about.


	7. Queen Anne's War

**Queen Anne's War**

Gabrielle blearily opened her eyes as the sharp morning sun burst through her room when her curtains were unceremoniously pulled open. She groaned as her consciousness returned and along with it the ache in her bones and the clammy, sweat-soaked feeling caused by her illness. "Finally, a little sun!" A woman's voice spoke out. "I'd thought we would never see it again. Come, sit up, a little light will do you a world of good."

For one unthinking moment, Gabrielle thought that Mrs. Potts had returned, but she was not so lucky. Queen Rose stood by the window, gazing down at her with keen eyes. "You will recover in a few days. The doctor has assured me that it is only a bad cold. That is a relief. I had been worried that you caught pneumonia."

"I could only imagine how your plans might be thwarted if your hostage was to suddenly die, whatever those plans might be," she replied sharply as she pushed herself up against her pillows, quite forgetting that she had vowed not to speak to the woman until she was released.

"I don't take any joy in keeping you here," the woman answered. "But I must follow the plot."

"What do you mean 'you must follow the plot'? Are you saying this whole scheme is not all your doing?" Gabrielle demanded, ignoring the pain and sitting up quite sharply. Was Queen Rose not the mastermind behind all of this? Who was pulling her strings then, and what did they have on her to make her obey? "Who else could benefit from you marrying my brother-in-law?"

Queen Rose laughed mirthlessly at that. "Benefit? Why, it doesn't benefit _her_ at all! Who knows what goes on in _her_ mind? And they call me mad!" She cackled before quickly sobering up, her eyes darting wildly about the room as though expecting an attack at any moment. "And the plot? Everyone knows what the plot is. It's a tale as old as time: Marry a prince, live happily ever after. Isn't that how the story goes?"

Gabrielle sat there in abject horror at the woman before her. Insane! Madness! "You wish to marry my brother-in-law - a mere _boy_ - simply because of the fairy tales you read as a child?"

The woman looked at her like a cat about to pounce, her hazel eyes piercing her to the bone. "Oh? Did you not receive your own fairy tale ending? You were swept off your feet by your Prince Charming. You went from servant to princess, all in one day. One would think that you would have a little more faith in such things."

"My so-called Prince Charming died in the Battle of Sedan one year after we were married. Seventeen thousand Frenchmen died in that battle, costing us the war with Prussia. After that, France revolted and I had to flee here with what was left of my family. My husband, Charles-Napoleon, lost both his legs at the knee from an artillery blast during the battle. It did not kill him out-right. He laid there for hours, unable to move. People could hear him calling out for help, but no one could reach him. He died alone and in excruciating pain," Gabrielle answered. "Was that the fairy tale ending you were looking for?"

"I am sorry for your loss, I did not mean to mock your pain," she stated. "But, this is something that I must do. If there was any other way out I would have found it; unfortunately, no other of royal blood will take me. Something about my reputation, I suppose. Louis-Napoleon is my last hope. I think, given enough time, you will come to see things from my point of view. Everything will go much better for you if you were to help me."

"I will never help you. The Empress will be expecting my return soon. All I have to do is wait. You can only keep up this charade for so long; then, you will have to release me."

"Do I?" Queen Rose demanded, her tone icy and full of danger. Then she smiled beneath her veil, her eyes crinkling at the corners, before patting the Princess's leg. "Do get some rest. You're looking quite pale."

* * *

_October 29, 1701_

_I have become convinced that those damned Englishmen have never received a day of schooling in their lives. Lord knows they certainly cannot read a map. So far, we've been able to keep them from crossing the Kennebec River, but they are certainly an obstinate people. I fear there will be much bloodshed before this war is over, but if it keeps the English out of my beloved Acadia then so be it. I wish you could see it, brother. The trees just go on for miles and there is always the smell of the sea in the crisp, cool air. The __Wabanaki__ call this place the __Dawnland__; I could not think of a more fitting name. I have heard that Father has fallen ill and that you have left school to help Mother run the family business. Father is made of hardy stuff, do not worry. After living with Mother for thirty years it would take more than a simple cold to do him in! You'll be back to tinkering with those machines of yours in no time. Hopefully, this war will be over soon and I can start shipping furs again. That will help lighten your load, I think._

_We have received reports that an English battalion has arrived at a nearby town. Our __Wabanaki__ scouts believe they are about to launch an invasion into New France. We intend on attacking the town and surprising them. I cannot tell you where or when, in case this letter is intercepted, but I wanted you to know. Do not despair, I have every confidence that I will survive the upcoming battle, but on the small chance I do not... Have faith, Maurice, everything will work out._

_Your brother,_

_Pierre_

* * *

Charlotte rode across leaf-covered fields and through thick forests as fast as her horse could take her. There was no time to rest; if she did not reach the town quickly then the French soldier would surely die. Still, she could not help but take her eyes off the trail to look up at the sky and the thick column of smoke that only seemed to grow thicker with each step she took. It filled her with a knowing sense of dread.

She understood little of the politics that seemed to have embroiled England and France and Spain. She knew that there was a dispute over the succession of the Spanish throne and from that one argument the tenuous relationship between the three kingdoms had collapsed. She did not know why King Louis XIV of France or their own Queen Anne of England would bother getting involved in Spanish affairs. Regardless, the war no longer seemed to be about the Spanish crown. They were fighting over religion, over land, over treaties. Not just in Europe, but in America too. No one seemed to know what land belonged to which kingdom. The borders were constantly being redrawn until they resembled a child's doodle. Charlotte wasn't even sure if her little farm was still in New England or if it was New France now. She wondered if taking in the wounded Frenchman was considered treasonous. But what else could she have done? Close the door and leave him to die in their fields? Take a knife from the kitchen and finish him off? It was a monstrous thought.

Charlotte wiped the snowflakes from her face, only to frown in confusion at the way they crumbled and smeared across her face. Frowning, she looked down at her gloved fingers to see them covered in soot. Black ash was falling around her. A heavy smell hung in the air; it was a foul, charred stench, like a Christmas roast left on the fire for too long.

She pulled on the reigns to bring her horse to a stop as she stepped out of the forest and into the glade that sat the little town she had grown to know. The buildings were nothing more than empty shells, some still smoldering, but most had collapsed into piles of ash and burnt wood. Bodies littered the streets. Most of the corpses were dressed in either the red jackets of the English or in the French blue. Here and there she saw the broken figure of an Indian warrior; she knew that several tribes lived in the area, though she couldn't tell which these men belonged to. Very rarely she saw one of her neighbors.

Charlotte sat astride her horse, her heart thundering, unsure of what she should do. Her eyes were riveted to the twisted body of Mrs. Black. She was kneeling, the top half of her body slumped forward with all her weight braced on her neck and head, dried blood blooming across her back. It was a hideous sight, all the more horrifying for the comical pose she had expired in. Charlotte wondered what had happened to the other villagers. Had they managed to escape? Where did they flee to? Or had they been trapped inside their homes as the fire raged through the town, burning their bodies until there was nothing left?

She turned her horse around and began the long journey back. There was nothing she could do here.

It was nightfall before she returned to the farm. Mr. Potts had managed to drag the soldier onto their bed and was tending to his fever with little Sarah by his side and staring at the bandaged stump with unabashed interest. Rachel was sitting in a chair, her back straight and tense, as she read aloud from the Bible; her small, suspicious eyes continuously flickered between the soldier and the door. She had a sixth sense for trouble, and well she should since she was the cause for a good bit of trouble herself. The girl slammed the Bible shut the moment Charlotte came through the door and leapt to her feet. "Well?" She demanded. "Did you get the supplies?"

She tried to find the words, but nothing came out. What was she supposed to say? How could she explain what had happened? Mr. Potts glanced at her warily as the silence stretched on, unconsciously reaching out to pull Sarah close to him. "Charlotte?" He asked, his voice wavering. He knew that whatever news she brought, it was going to be terrible. With a jolt, Charlotte realized that it was the first time he had ever addressed her by her Christian name. It had always been 'Miss Baker' or 'Mrs. Potts'. She supposed he meant it to be comforting.

"Everyone's dead," she said simply. They stared at her. They didn't understand. "Last night, when we thought we heard thunder. We waited and waited but the storm never came. There was just the constant roll of thunder far in the distance. It was a battle. There are dead soldiers in the streets, the town has been burned to the ground. There's nothing left."

For a moment, no one said anything. Then with a whisper Rachel broke the silence. "He did it," she said, her eyes staring wide at the unconscious man lying on their bed. "We should get rid of him."

"What?" Mr. Potts demanded as though he couldn't believe what he just heard.

Rachel's eyes flashed towards her father as she drew herself up to her full height. She looked like some wild barbarian woman in that moment, dangerous and so sure she was right. "It's obvious that this French soldier was part of the unit that attacked the town! He butchered our neighbors! We should throw him out to the wolves for what he did!"

"That would be murder," Mr. Potts snapped. "God has commanded-"

"God kills soldiers. He killed them at Jericho and Babylon. Anyway, it's not murder if it's during a war."

"There is no battle here!" He roared. "He is not a soldier now! What he is, is a wounded man who has sought shelter. He cannot defend himself! He's utterly helpless!"

"So, that negates what he did then? What about all the people who are dead now because of the French? Our neighbors weren't soldiers either but they're dead all the same!"

Mr. Potts shook his head, "It is God's will."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Rachel struck like an angry cobra. "It has nothing to do with God! It's man's will! You think God wanted Mother to die? You think God wanted all those people to die? You only use God as an excuse because you're too scared to face the real world!"

Charlotte was in front of Rachel before she even knew what she was doing. She stood there, a human barrier between the girl and her father. She could feel Rachel shaking against her back as she stared up at Mr. Potts, who was now looming above them, his hand raised. Whether it was fear that caused Rachel to tremble or anger, Charlotte couldn't say. For one long moment, his hand wavered in the air, none of them sure if he was going to strike them with it, before dropping it in anger. "This is my house. I am your father. I expect you to obey me completely."

"No."

For a brief second, surprise marred Mr. Potts's face, but just as quickly it faded into the same dour expression that he always wore. Charlotte didn't turn around but she could hear Rachel stomping through the cabin as she pulled on her boots and cloak. When the door slammed shut, she knew she was gone.

She and Mr. Potts nursed the soldier throughout the night, neither one sure if he was going to survive. When his fever finally broke at dawn, Charlotte stood up from her chair and stretched; there was no time to sleep, they had a full day of chores ahead of them. She headed out to the barn, milk pail in hand when she caught sight of a pair of gangly legs sticking out from the hay. "Rachel?" She called, setting down her pail. "It's good to see that you're getting along with Mamie enough to share a room with her." The cow lowed at them as Rachel dug her way through the little nest she made.

She sat up and glared at Charlotte, but the effect was somewhat lost seeing as how she was covered in bits of broken hay. "I'm not going back into that house," she insisted, already prepared for a fight.

"Alright," Charlotte agreed. "I'll see if I can't bring you a bit of breakfast."

Rachel stared up at her in confusion, obviously not expecting Charlotte to help her so readily. "Um... Thank you," she stuttered out.

Charlotte smiled as she sat on the little stool next to Rachel to begin her milking. "You're welcome."


End file.
